


Riverbank Blues

by bitter_leaf



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, First Time, M/M, No Smut, Southern Gothic, Spring, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 04:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20383573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitter_leaf/pseuds/bitter_leaf
Summary: “Hello, Styles,” came the silky voice, and Harry leapt up the bed, drawing his legs to his chest. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.“Get away, devil!” Harry exclaimed, aiming for forceful but the sound that came out was nothing but a husky whimper.“I’m no devil,” said the voice, and Louis stepped into the light, the same wry grin on his face that Harry had seen the night he died.__Decatur, Alabama, 1932. Louis meets an untimely end before he can get what he wants but Louis isn't finished with Harry yet...





	Riverbank Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Any mistakes are my own.

The death of the young Tomlinson boy had been a blow to the society folks of Decatur, Alabama, the spring of '32. A bright boy with a promising future in his final year of high school when he died, he’d been headed to Vanderbilt University to become a business man, like his daddy. His parents, well-to-do folk, wept over his casket surrounded by his bevvy of sisters, that unusually warm May morning when they’d buried him.

The family had told of a sudden passing, some kind of cardiac incident in the night, but behind closed doors, the community gossiped, and talk of _murder_ had spread. He’d been found sporting a great bloody blow, the whispers said, a great wedge taken out of his pretty little head. 

Louis had been universally popular, a stellar student, captain of the track and tennis teams, and many a pretty girl wanted to be his sweetheart. But despite the family’s secret efforts to resolve what might have happened to him, there was no motive and no culprit ever found.

**

“What’d you bring me down for here, anyways?” Louis has asked. Even thought it was only May, summer had already arrived and despite being nearly midnight, the air was still thick with stifling heat.

Harry had shuffled his feet, he was an ungainly thing, as if he’d grown too tall, too fast, and his long dark curls hung lank over his face. On another boy, his features might have been pleasing; green eyes, high cheekbones and the early makings of a handsome man’s jaw. Unfortunately, he was a curious child, too earnest, too honest, lacking all the charm of his sometimes friend.

“Thought the water looked nice at night, you know?” Harry had mumbled, shoving the toe of a worn boot into the gap between the rails. The railroad ran along the edge Wheeler Lake, along the banks of the Tennessee River. During the day, you’d likely see a steamboat or a barge coming into the port, but at night, the river moved like molasses, muddy and dark in the muted moonlight.

“_Yeah_,” Louis had said as if Harry was stupid, “but I mean, why me?” He’d picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across the dark water.

Harry had felt the sweat on the back of his neck go cold, as if a sudden wind had blown in.

“Kinda place you’d take a girl, dontcha think?” Louis’ bright eyes had flashed.

“Not necessarily,” Harry had supplied, bristling, but Louis was right, it was the kind of place you’d bring someone you wanted to kiss, the riverbank.

Louis had balanced on the railway line, walking one foot in front of the other, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, suspenders hanging loose on his hips. Harry’s breath had caught in his throat as he came closer.

They spent time together like this sometimes, away from prying eyes. They’d become something resembling friends after Louis’ parents had engaged Harry’s mother’s services as a housekeeper following Mr Styles’ layoff in the depression. Despite Harry’s efforts to get a job to help his family, his parents had insisted he finish his education. Louis’ mother, born into immense wealth before marrying a young and brash entrepreneur, however, wouldn’t have taken kindly to Louis taking up with the help’s children, much less a rather unusual boy like Harry. Privately, Johannah thought he had a particularly sad countenance.

“Why do you wear your hair like that?” Louis had asked.

Harry had shaken his curls out of his face; it wasn’t so much his hairstyle as his posture that was the problem, he walked as if with the weight of the world on him, shoulders hunched, head bowed.

“Are you making fun of me?” He’d asked as Louis continued to dance over the railway tracks.

Louis had laughed, a warm cackle disturbing the peace of the water lapping at the bank. “No. Just wonderin’. Maybe you should cut it so we could see your face some.”

“You’d like that, would you?” Harry fired back. He’d so desperately wanted Louis’ answer to be yes but he hadn’t known how to tell him.

Louis had shrugged, “Maybe. It’s a nice face.” He’d grinned then, a bright smile, and Harry hadn’t known if he was being serious.

Louis had approached, and Harry had felt like he was being choked by the sticky night air. He’d coughed and spluttered as if he’d swallowed a bug but Louis had only laughed again, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he’d reached out a hand to tug at the arm of Harry’s shirt.

“You ever kissed a girl before, Styles?”

Harry had felt his cheeks burn as Louis’ eyes bore into him.

“Is this where you brought her? Laid her down on the grass, hand in her hair, whispered sweet things in her ear? Called her pretty?”

“Don’t tease me,” Harry had begged, ducking his head again to avoid Louis’ gaze, but Louis had held him firmly; he was stronger than his slender frame suggested.

Louis’ fingers had gripped into his forearm and Harry was reminded why this sunny boy held everyone’s attention; he was mesmerizing. For a few moments, Harry let himself look–sharp blue eyes, Louis’ features feminine and fine, a mischievous look permanently painted on his face. Wisps of his chestnut hair danced in the night breeze, and as he perched on the track still, because Harry was taller than he, they stood face to face.

“Is that why I’m here?” Louis had asked fiercely, all traces of humour gone.

Harry had gulped.

Louis’ face had softened but he still had the upper hand, “Do you think _I’m_ pretty? Would you like to lie _me_ down on the grass, Styles? Put your mouth on mine?”

Harry’s instinct was to hang his head and laugh but he hadn’t wanted to break the moment. In any case, he hadn’t been able to look away.

Louis had moved his face even closer until their noses almost touched. “Tell me,” he’d insisted.

Harry hadn’t been able to move, had been held in place by Louis’ hand on his arm, transfixed by his determined gaze.

“_Please_,” Harry had begged, not knowing whether he was asking Louis to kiss him, or just to let him be.

He’d imagined leaning in to brush their lips together before, only in these visions, Louis pushed him away, cackling cruelly before running off to tell his wealthy friends, the vicious children of society types, that Harry was sinful, debased; a pitiful, poor degenerate. 

Louis had moved his hand up from Harry’s forearm to his face, the backs of his delicate fingers tracing up Harry’s cheekbone to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. Harry hadn’t thought Louis would take the ruse this far but he couldn’t be certain and was far too fearful of rejection to make the move. Louis had raked his fingers through Harry’s hair at his temple, and Harry hadn’t been able to stop himself closing his eyes in satisfaction and wonderment.

“_Louis_,” he’d whimpered as Louis gripped the back of his head.

Harry had felt the trepidation building in his chest and it threatening to choke him. Louis was so close they were sharing air and Harry had thought if Louis didn’t move away or close the space between them soon, his knees would buckle, or he’d suffocate.

Louis had lowered his eyes, moving in just a fraction further and Harry was sure he was going to do it, going to kiss him, before Louis had ducked around to whisper in his ear. Harry had inhaled sharply, his disappointment palpable.

“If you want me, Styles, you’re going to have to come and get me,” Louis had leant back just slightly to lick his lips seductively, and Harry’s heart had raced, now sure this was no longer a game.

Louis had continued to balance on the rail line, the soles of his boots grinding on the worn steel. Harry had watched him take a step backwards but when he fell, it was like slow motion; his heel catching, foot slipping on the metal, his small body falling, falling, out of reach. When he’d landed, it was with a deafening crunch, his sweet face frozen in a small smile as he lay curled on the tracks. Harry would have thought he was just lying there, sleeping serenely, if it wasn’t for the pool of blood seeping from the other side of his head, slick like oil, seeping into the ballast.

So sure he was that Louis was dead, Harry hadn’t even call his name before he’d turned and ran.

**

Despite his protestations, his mother had dragged Harry to the church service where they sat up the back. The nice ladies fanned their faces, sweltering in the pews, as the preacher led the congregation in the memorial.

Harry’s face was blank. When the word had gotten around the next day that Louis had passed, he’d been one of the few to know the truth; that at some point, some poor soul must have discovered Louis’ mutilated body on those tracks. Harry had thanked the heavens that the discovery had happened before the arrival of the morning train. He’d wondered what Louis’ parents had thought, whether they’d considered if he’d been up to something lecherous out there on the banks; maybe they thought he’d met his demise in a jealous spat with a rival, or worse, in a quarrel with a secret lover.

Louis was buried in the family plot, which was more accurately a great ornate mausoleum in the churchyard housing generations of departed Tomlinsons. Harry passed it every day on his way to and from school and he watched as the flowers decayed in the airless heat. One day, the flowers were removed and once again, the place looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades.

It was one week, then two, and Harry tried not to miss him too much, after all, they’d barely known each other. Louis had been alluring, intriguing, altogether unlike anyone Harry had ever met, but now he was gone, and that was that.

Only one evening, Harry was awoken from a fitful sleep, the heat making sweat pool at his forehead and down his back. He sat up with a start, his legs tangled in the sheets. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he swore that there, at the foot of his bed, was a figure. His heart raced.

“Hello, Styles,” came the silky voice, and Harry leapt up the bed, drawing his legs to his chest. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Get away, devil,” Harry exclaimed, aiming for forceful, but the sound that came out was nothing but a husky whimper.

“I’m no devil,” said the voice, and Louis stepped into the light, the same wry grin on his face that Harry had seen the night he died.

Harry felt his heart beat in his throat, “_Louis_, it can’t be,” he whispered. He rubbed at his eyes but when he reopened them, Louis was still there, tracing his fingers languidly along the foot of Harry’s bed.

“I must be mad,” Harry said, wide-eyed, mostly to himself.

Louis scoffed, eyes warm, “No more than usual, I’d say.”

Louis looked almost exactly the same as he had that night; he wore the same shirt, unbuttoned, suspenders still draped about his soft hips. There was no evidence of the wound at his head, his floppy hair a tad greasy with the heat but no blood. If anything, he looked well, the only difference being his complexion–it was a little more pallid than his usual bronzed glow. Harry noticed there was dirt underneath his fingernails too, unusual for a boy who hadn’t spent a day labouring in his life.

“I saw you die,” Harry finally came to. Acutely aware of his state of undress, he yanked the sheet up over his chest to hide his nakedness.

Louis smirked at his modesty, his hand dropping from the bedpost as he came closer. Harry trembled despite the cloying heat, he was fearful but wanting. He couldn’t understand how Louis being here was possible but his cheeks flushed and his heart warmed at seeing him again.

Louis sat at the foot of the bed, the mattress sagging with his weight, and he reached a small hand to grip at Harry’s ankle. Harry gasped, he was warm, solid, _real_.

“I was quite surprised myself when I woke up in that ghastly mausoleum,” Louis shrugged. He touched a hand to his forehead lightly, “and I had a splitting headache.”

“You were dead,” Harry said, feeling rather foolish. Louis was quite obviously not dead anymore, unless–

Louis continued, “It’s curious, I feel quite fine, but I went to see my mother and she couldn’t see me.” He licked his lips, “But _you_ can.”

Harry gulped, “Lucky me.”

Louis grinned wickedly. “Lucky you, indeed.” He removed his hand from Harry’s ankle and creeped closer.

Harry peered at him for a sign of anything untoward, but up close he looked the same, corporeal, and Harry could feel the heat from of his body as he moved up the bed.

“Are you a ghost?” Harry asked, yearning to pull Louis into his arms, touch his hair and squeeze at his limbs, for his hands to confirm him what his eyes couldn’t. 

“Perhaps,” Louis smiled, “although I haven’t had much success moving through walls.”

“You look too well to be a ghoul.”

Louis laughed, “Also much too good-looking, I think.”

Harry chuckled despite himself, pushing his hair back from his forehead. His hands loosened on the sheet. “I see dying hasn’t made you any more modest.”

“I could be more modest, it’s true, but you could be a bit less,” Louis licked his lips again, eyes flashing darkly, and he moved his hand up to tug lightly on the thin bedsheet, dragging it down inch by inch.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat and he raised an arm to his chest to cover his embarrassment, “Why are you here?”

In a flash, Louis climbed onto the bed, on his hands and knees on either side of Harry’s body, and Harry wondered if Louis had acquired some sort of preternatural ability, or whether he was always this graceful.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m haunting you,” Louis lowered his head to mouth at the clammy skin at Harry’s neck.

Harry gasped; Louis’ breath was warm, his mouth insistent as he kissed a little trail from beneath Harry’s ear to his collarbone. Quick as a whip, Louis raised his face up to stare into Harry’s eyes; they were apprehensive but burned with desire.

“Why?” Harry whimpered, unable to look away.

Louis’ eyes burned blue like a flame. “If my daddy knew what you did, he’d shoot you himself,” he said, his voice a whisper, lowering his gaze to stare lustfully at Harry’s naked chest, “although with our condition, mighta been for the best.”

Harry’s heart filled with dread, but Louis wasn’t finished.

“It’s your fault I’m dead.”

Harry’s blood ran cold and he jumbled his words as they escaped his mouth, “I’m sorry–, you slipped, I couldn’t–, I wanted–”

Louis tossed his hair off his forehead dismissively, eyes still boring into Harry’s. “If only you’d kissed me, Styles, we could have avoided this whole mess.”

Harry cheeks flushed with shame but also indignation. “You didn’t kiss me either.”

Louis’s tongue darted out to lick his lips a final time, “I won’t make that mistake twice.”

Harry exhaled sharply, closing his eyes just in time for Louis to seal their lips together.

It was better than Harry had ever imagined, Louis’ mouth hot and demanding as he pushed his tongue in. Louis raked his small hands up Harry’s ribs to squeeze at his shoulders, and Harry yelped as Louis grinded their hips together through the flimsy sheet.

When Louis tore off his clothes and pressed their bodies together, tacky with sweat, Harry thought he was going to melt, and when Louis’ hand roamed to brush between his thighs, Harry finally let himself give in.

The next morning, Louis was nowhere to be found, and Harry wondered if he’d dreamt it; Louis appearing to him in the night, a beautiful spectre with hands and a mouth like fire. Harry pulled the sheet back over his nakedness wearily. Real or not, for the first time in weeks, the air through the open window was cooler.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by The Steeldrivers song "Shallow Grave", which talks about a love so strong it won't stay buried. It's good, you should give it a listen! 
> 
> Otherwise, thank you for reading :) 
> 
> Sometimes I muck around on [tumblr](https://bitter-leaf.tumblr.com).


End file.
